


White Noise

by sister_coyote



Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga
Genre: Cannibalism, Community: yaoi_challenge, Frottage, M/M, Silence Kink, Size Kink, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-24
Updated: 2007-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 11:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coordinate 136 unnerves Heat.  Heat doesn't like that at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Noise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harukami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harukami/gifts).



> Moderate spoilers through Coordinate 136.

The building ( . . . castle? Is that a word he knows, or should know?) has had Heat on edge since they entered, with its puzzles and its mazes and its switchbacks, portraits, statues. He bristles whenever the voice-from-nowhere crackles to life. He is even more than usually relieved when things come down to straightforward combat, his claws bloody and his jaws aching to seize and tear.

Argilla vacillates between trying to calm him down and sizzling over with frustration at him. He prefers the frustration. Serph is silent, as always, always silent—and he hates that most of all. It bothers him for the same reason this place bothers him, a feeling he cannot quite grasp or put a name to. He hates that feeling, hates thinking about it, hates this place for forcing it on him.

The puzzles bore and frustrate him. It isn't that he's too stupid to figure them out—but they seem like an affront to the seriousness of this (_where is Sera?_) and he hates that they have to play along to get anywhere. When Gale and Argilla scout ahead to examine the next one, Heat hangs back, with Serph. He does not do a very good job of hiding his impatience, because he does not try.

Sera is here somewhere, and that knowledge fills him with—sensations that he cannot name, and does not want to name. Sera is here somewhere, and Serph is here _with him_, and yet distant behind his wall of silence, as he always is. Thinking of both of them at the same time makes him feel dizzy and sick, like he's eaten bad meat. It is a feeling that can be driven off by the feeling of blood on his claws, flesh between his jaws, and so he feel relief mixed with the battle-mettle when the unicorn attacks them.

This at least he understands, completely. He can't imagine why Argilla has so many problems with it. Everything's straightforward, comprehensible, _real_—the surge of power, the way his blows land hard and solid against the creature's body, the rising roar of flames. He does not feel his wounds or his sapping strength, is not aware of them until—with the bright, brittle wind of Serph's magic—they are no more, healed, perceptible only in absence. Outside of battle he is unsure of Serph; he feels awkward and strained. In battle, he moves in full confidence that Serph will back him up, and there is no question but that he will do the same.

When the creature squeals and shudders and bleeds out on the floor, he sets to immediately, slaking his hunger, spending his fury with tooth-marks on the long white bones. When he is sated—for now—on blood and flesh and marrow, he shudders and turns inward, the power streaking back into the mark on his arm, leaving him human again. With his old shape comes a return of the nagging, itching feeling that is not quite unsureness and is not quite doubt, that hovers on the edge of consciousness—and the awareness of Sera, Sera somewhere near, small and dark and vivid in his mind's eye.

And Serph, silent-silver, _weak_ and yet strong, and that unsettles him—Serph, the leader, who he would challenge but yet would not, the conflict that is at the heart of him when he thinks of Serph, and Sera.

Serph, who is still Varna, his ridge of teeth chewing sinews from the bone.

Serph, who does not speak: but Varna howls. And that is close enough.

Heat's feet carry him over to Varna. Varna is nearly twice his height like this, pale and bony and sharp-edged, looking down his perceptive eyeless face. Heat does not know what he wants, and when he is unsure he defaults to aggression. (He is sure that that's not how it always was, but now it shudders just under the surface.) "Hungry?" he snarls, and Varna's long lean body bends, dips—looks like some sort of creature that Heat knows he has never seen, and yet the name dances on the tip of his tongue—and it takes Heat a moment to realize that Varna is nodding, after a fashion.

"You'd better find something else," he says. The unicorn is nothing but bones, now, and all the big ones have been cracked, the marrow licked clean.

The long bone-blades on Varna's wrists flick out, and back in—and out again, and he reaches to trace Heat's cheek with the back of his hand. Heat growls, defensive, feeling Agni rising and the flare of his atma mark ready to denfend: but though Varna's teeth bare with hunger, Varna does not turn teeth or blades against him.

"The fuck?" Heat demands.

Varna makes a low throbbing noise in response, and leans forward, and then —

— he is licking the blood away, the blood around Heat's mouth, left there from his feeding. His tongue strokes quick and cool, which should not be surprising but _is_ (cool as the taste of mint, even though he does not know what mint is), and his great long fingers close around Heat's shoulders, and he makes another noise: and Heat decides, suddenly, that he will play along if only because Serph—Varna—is making noise. For goddamn once.

Varna eases down on his weird long feet and then his claws are tearing at Heat's pants—they are too large to be subtle, and Heat helps if only to keep his clothes from being torn to shreds. He is not sure he knows what Varna wants, but memories rise like bubbles and for once he does not fight them.

Varna shakes, making a low rumbling noise, and then his cock emerges from its protective sheath. Heat will not shudder because he refuses to do so. Varna's hands curl around Heat's thighs and lift him—he would protest that if it weren't for the keening noise Varna is making, the way he bends his head, the light gleaming off his crest. Heat is without fear, by choice, but though Varna does not frighten him he does not like being helpless, and so he hooks a leg around Varna's lean hip and arches, rubbing his erection against Varna's. His hands seek purchase on the smooth bone plates that protect Varna's throat and chest.

Varna _howls_. Heat wants to howl, though his mouth is made wrong and so the noise he makes is more a groan, or a snarl, because it feels—it feels—and Varna's touch is cool, and makes his skin prickle.

He does it again, and again—and Varna keens and folds down, his long body collapsing in on itself, until he is crouching over Heat and Heat's shoulders are on the floor. Varna braces his claws against the floor—the blades at his wrists snap out, click against it, bracing more. Heat is wholly surrounded and would not like it, usually, except that the look in Varna's eyes is vulnerable beyond the cold hunger, and when he moves the heat and tension shocks through him. And Varna makes _noise_.

He is building toward something though he does not know what, every movement bringing him closer to whatever it is. Then something snaps and shudders free, and he shakes and there is wetness—and he stops moving, but Varna shifts to coil one hand around the small of his back and grinds them together, hard, more, and then there is more wet and Varna makes a noise that Heat has never heard, and could not describe even if he wants to, which he does not.

They remain locked together, shivering. Then Varna rolls free and coils in and becomes Serph—a little mussed, but cool, silent. Looking at him, Heat is more confused than ever, but too sated—on blood and flesh and something else—to care.

They go onward, to find Argilla and Gale and, eventually—he is sure of it—Sera.


End file.
